The Third Resident of 221B
by unicornicopia
Summary: John goes out on an errand, and comes home with a pleasant surprise.


"John, dear, are you _really_ sure that this is a very good idea? I mean, you know what he's like." Mrs Hudson had been worried all day, but it seemed the closer we got to the flat, the more she wrung he hands and needed reassurance, but John knew what he was doing.

"Yes, of course I'm sure. I've told you, haven't I? This will be good for him." John patted the crate softly and peeked inside again. He was sure of what he was doing; Sherlock may not say it, but he would love it, and, if on some strange off-chance he didn't, John would still appreciate the change.

"Well, alright dear, if you're _really_ sure. If something _does_ go wrong though, if he doesn't like it or if he forgets and," Mrs Hudson stopped abruptly, but John knew what she was thinking of saying.

"I still live with him, you know. If he doesn't take care of it, I will. Don't worry, he may not be in touch with social conventions, but he would never let that happen." She didn't seem very comforted though, her hands had settled but she had taken to tapping her foot in short, quick movements against the floor of the cab.

As John turned to look back out the window towards the street, he was sure, he was more than sure. He had thought long and hard about this and he was certain.

* * *

Hunched over his microscope, Sherlock was busy comparing carpet fibres, as he had been doing since 3:34 this morning.

They had been a key piece in solving the murder of an elderly woman in her basement. It had been the son, after what he thought was her grand fortune that came to be non-existent, incriminated by the thirty year old shag carpet fibres left on the bottom of his trousers. It was really very simple once he had the samples from his work and low-income flat for comparison.

As soon as he had solved the case however, he began to think of all the possible other types of carpet he could inspect, all the microscopic differences he could find, and went around the flat getting samples. John had not been pleased with him coming in his room at four in the morning, but seemed to have gotten over it; he and Mrs Hudson were currently out getting swatches for Sherlock from some store fourteen blocks over.

He could now here them coming up the stairs. Mrs Hudson was saying something, but her tone was too quiet and the walls already muffled it, making it impossible to overhear.

Sherlock held out a hand as the door opened, not looking up from the microscope. "John, Mrs Hudson, I appreciate the both you going out for me. Now, the swatches."

John sighed heavily and shuffled about to the kitchen, presumably putting things down. His shuffling continued for a moment and the he walked over and simply stood behind Sherlock, not moving and _clearly_ not handing him the swatches he needed.

"John, must you really be so-" Sherlock stopped as he turned around to find John standing not with the samples, but, rather, and small fuzzy ball. As he cradled it, he had a small fond smile on his lips, his eyes only occasionally meeting the man's before him.

"A cat. I send you out do get me something that I _desperately_ need, and you come back with a cat."

"Oh, would you relax. You do not _desperately_ need anything, and we still got the swatches, we just made a detour on the way back." John seemed to find this highly amusing; his smile was growing. He met Sherlock's eyes. "Also, it's a kitten. He's only eight weeks old."

They watch the small ball of sandy fur reach out a paw and hook onto John's jumper and then as he turns to Sherlock, pale eyes gleaming. As she comes over, Mrs Hudson coos and reaches out to pet the kitten, slowly ruffling its belly fur as a small rumble begins in its chest. All the while though, its eyes remained locked with Sherlock's.

After a moments hesitation, Sherlock got up from his stool and walked quickly to the kitchen table. "Well then, yes. These samples should do just fine, thank you." He rifled through the pile and carefully started to pick out and separate particular swatches he would use later. John had done a nice job; there were many different colours, textures and lengths to choose from. He wouldn't have a hard time spending the rest of the day focused on this.

The kitten, despite him receiving affection from both John and Mrs Hudson, was however completely focused on Sherlock and began to wriggle in John's arms and whine. He was set down carefully on the floor and instantly went off to the kitchen to sit by Sherlock's feet.

"He seems enamoured by Sherlock already." Mrs Hudson observed and her previous smile grew fonder.

"It's hard not to be." John returned her smile and wrapped his arm around her shoulders and lightly squeezed. "Even if Sherlock didn't like him, he'd still have a hard time getting rid of him."

Sherlock seemed to have found all he needed for the moment and came back to his desk carrying a pile of twenty or so swatches; the cat only a step behind him. As Sherlock sat, he passed a look towards the cat before returning to his work and commenting "By the way John, have you named it yet?"

"Well, we thought we might leave that up to you. Have any ideas?"

After a short pause, Sherlock answered "No. I'll tell you when I've found one suitable."

The whole afternoon Sherlock sat and examined carpet fibres. All the while, the cat lie at his feet.

* * *

As the days passed, the cat's fondness of Sherlock only grew and, while he thought John was oblivious, Sherlock grew to cater to the cats every need. He replaced its food when it ran low, same with its water, always made room for it on the couch and in his bed at night, and helped it to accumulate a great amount of toys, which he helped strew about the house. He even seemed to be taking better care of himself, amazingly.

However though, he was yet to give the cat a name.

John would occasionally ask, though every time he received a "Not yet," or "I'll tell you when." He had to call it something though; when he thought John was otherwise occupied, John could hear mummers coming from the living room or Sherlock's room; he was clearly talking to the cat.

John had tried multiple times to overhear; dashing home early, coming down in the middle of the night 'for a glass of water' or 'falling asleep' in front of the telly; but Sherlock always seemed to hear him coming or see through his plan. The murmuring always stopped and he went back to what he had been doing.

Though, he had caught him a couple times doing something very un-Sherlock-like; _laughing_. Even though he could stop his whispers the moment he heard John or figured out his plan, he had a harder time stopping himself when he had a deep rumble going through his chest.

These few times where some of the only John had heard Sherlock laugh _ever_, and especially while not on a case. He never caught sight of what was going on, but he was sure it had to do with the unnamed cat.

He finally came to the conclusion on a dreary afternoon that, whatever was going on, he was getting tired of going out of his way to find out. So even though it picked at his curiosity every time he heard a hushed whisper or low chuckle from the other room, he would leave it be. He figured that whenever Sherlock was ready, he would tell him what was going on, and he wasn't going to let him find out before then.

So, leaving Sherlock and the cat lying on the couch, he went to clean up the kitchen. There hadn't been a case since the one Sherlock solved with the carpet fibres, of all things, but he wasn't nearly as mopey as usual, undoubtedly the cat's doing. Though with this rain, John didn't doubt that something seedy was going on somewhere that would need Sherlock's attention by tomorrow.

Feeling that the dishes were mostly washed of their caked on food, John shut the water off to start loading them in the dishwasher.

"Stop that John." While hard to hear, John was sure that Sherlock had said that from the other room.

Patting his hands dry quickly on a towel, John padded over towards the main room prepared to ask what was going on, but found Sherlock staring down at the cat while he defiantly clawed at Sherlock's sleep shirt.

John stood in the archway confused, but after a moment, a small smile of realization passed his lips and he went back to the sink.

Over the clanking of the dishes, he could faintly hear Sherlock's murmurings;

"I told you to stop that,"

"Why won't you listen toys you want. Why won't you just do what I ask?"

While he ever said anything around company or in John's obvious company, John would occasionally hear comments that, even though one might think otherwise, he knew weren't directed at him, and every time, that small knowing smile grew on his lips.


End file.
